


The Case of Lady Bridgette, Heiress of Scotch

by Zigster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (if you squint), Arranged Marriage, Case Fic, Challenge fic, John in a kilt, John in red pants, M/M, Scottish Highlands, Slightly manipulative Sherlock, This really just is a bit of good fun, What else is new?, but to whom!?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: “Why on earth would I want to get married?”“Because John, you are a bachelor of a certain age, living with another bachelor of a certain age and it has to come to my attention that a number of rumors suggest--”“Shut up!”Sherlock smirks at him. “It’s for a case, John.”“Of course it is.”“Well then, why did you ask?”------A classic troupe-filled celebration of a romp with our boys.





	The Case of Lady Bridgette, Heiress of Scotch

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give you guys all the troupes with this one. I wanted to throw them about like confetti at a parade, and so the result includes red pants, kilts, John's Scottish heritage shamelessly flaunted, a re-do of the stag night, the thinnest plotline in history utilized as an excuse for snogging and more! I hope you enjoy.

Alternative title: _That One Time Sherlock Had John Fitted for a Kilt and Then Promptly Took Him on Holiday_

Written for [H.I.A.T.U.S's March Challenge](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/) \- Arranged Marriage 

Not beta'd but well looked over  
Not brit-picked but researched 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“There.” With a final click to his computer’s keypad, Mycroft pushes back from his desk with a satisfied sneer on his lips. “It’s all arranged.”

 

“What is?”

 

The deeply resigned sigh of the forever disappointed echoes out into the room behind them and John turns to see Sherlock lounged on Mycroft's prized chesterfield with his long limbs laying claim over every cushion in an impressive display of ennui. He glowers at John from his perch, willing him with his eyes to at least pretend to understand. John has long become accustomed to that gaze despite its inability to ever convey any actual information to him. He will never understand how Sherlock still believes that glaring at him could actually explain anything of merit as opposed to leaving him in the throes of endless frustration. 

 

“The wedding, John.” 

 

“The wedding?”

 

“Yes, Dr. Watson, your wedding.”

 

John splutters. “Sorry? My wedding?”

 

Sherlock grumbles something about the conversation being ‘ridiculous’ and Mycroft stands and buttons the front closures of his bespoke suit. John contemplates knocking the two brother’s heads together. He hadn’t even had his coffee yet before he’d been dragged into a black cab and subsequently Mycroft’s office with not a word of explanation (or coffee) offered to him the entire time.

 

“Yes, John. You’re a soldier, are you not?” Mycroft asks, a thin eyebrow arching skyward. 

 

“You bloody well know it.”

 

“Good. Then consider this for England,” Mycroft intones. Sherlock drops his head into his hands and groans.  

 

Mycroft is rounding his desk and making for the door before John can so much as make a fist at his side. He turns on his heel to find Sherlock with his long, pale fingers cradling his temples as the heavy metal door swooshes shut silently behind them.

 

“Care to explain?”

 

“You’re marrying, John. I would have assumed you’d picked up at least that much.”

 

“Who am I marrying?”

 

“Lady Bridgette Coatsworth MacDougall of Port Charlotte, Islay.”

 

"Good lord."

 

"Not quite."

 

“Scotland?”

 

“Quite.”

 

It was John’s turn to rub at his temples. “Why on earth would I want to get married?”

 

“Because John, you are a bachelor of a certain age, living with another bachelor of a certain age and it has to come to my attention that a number of rumors suggest--”

 

“Shut up!”

 

Sherlock smirks at him. “It’s for a case, John.”

 

“Of course it is.”

 

“Well then, why did you ask?”

 

“Sarcasm.”

 

“You asked because of sarcasm?”

 

“No! I was--” John takes a moment to breathe in deeply through his nostrils, “I was being sarcastic because with you everything is ‘for a case’.”

 

“Glad you’ve finally caught up.”

 

“Why me?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“ _You’re_ a bachelor of a certain age living with _another_ bachelor of a certain age so why not you?”

 

Sherlock just blinks at the man, a crease deepening between his eyebrows as the silence flows out before them like an endless ocean of stubborn fortitude.

 

John sighs. Sherlock grins and springs from his seat in triumph. The game was on.

 

. . .

 

“Why the hell am I standing in my pants in the middle of a shop again?”

 

John’s face is about as red as his pants as Sherlock sits behind him studying his mobile.

 

“You’re getting fitted for your kilt and wedding jacket, John. Really. Must I repeat myself?”

 

“It’s a fake wedding. Why do I need a real kilt?”

 

Sherlock looks up at him from under his lashes, the blue light of his phone screen casting an eerie otherworldly glow over his pale, angular face. He smiles at John. “For fun?”

 

“I can dress myself, thank you very much.”

 

“Yes, John. We’ve all seen what’s in your closet but I doubt Lady Bridgette would be as taken with those ancient, endearing garments as I am. Hence, the tailor.”

 

“I’ve never even walked down Savile Row before.”

 

“Well, now you have.”

 

“What if someone comes in?”

 

“They won’t, John. This is by appointment only. Stop acting so utterly plebeian.”

 

John puts his hands on his hips and stares hard into the three-way mirror before him, assessing his person. He hates looking at his body. Bodies are meant for practical purposes, not vanity. The many scars covering his skin speak to that effect, as do the hard muscles of his thighs from peddling to work each morning, hoping to keep the encroachment of middle age at bay. He’s a soldier, dammit, his body is meant for physical work, not standing around in one’s pants like a damn . . . behind him he spies Sherlock no longer studying his phone but, instead, John’s backside and his train of thought flies right out the window. He turns, hands fisted at his sides and glares.

 

“If you so much as even smirk at me during this whole mess, so help me--”

 

Sherlock holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And then, deliberately, smirks.

 

John moves to step off the miniature stage he’d been placed on just as the tailor rounds the corner, yards of elegant wool draped over one arm and a pin cushion strapped to the wrist of the other as if it were a rather pokey wristwatch. A measuring tape hangs around his neck like a scarf adding to the whimsy and, thankfully for Sherlock, a pair of consoling, blue eyes meet John’s in the mirror, distracting him from his earlier ire. 

 

“First time, eh? I can always tell. I’ll take good care of you, Cap'n. Nothing to worry about.”

 

John grins in a shy sort of way at the non-formal usage of his military title. Sherlock must have told him, he assumes. Or did this man refer to all his customers that way?

 

The man, who’d introduced himself as Archie, cuts an impressive figure in his own bespoke clothes. He wears a crisp white button down, his cuffs rolled to his elbows and tweed trousers that are quite the fit against his slim hips. There’s a waistcoat too, complete with what John assumes are casual wooden buttons and an honest-to-god pocket watch with a gold chain dangling from its respective pocket. John smiles at the ensemble, rather amused and endeared by the whole affair. Getting dressed in the morning must be exhausting for the man. Not to mention the grooming his facial hair must require. John tilts his head, wondering what type of hair gel he uses to keep it looking so soft yet oddly touchable.

 

“I’ve taken the liberty of pulling out several tartans for the kilt. Plaids are rather fascinating considering there can be up to twenty different designs per clan depending on the occasion and the wearer of the kilt. You wouldn’t want to walk down the aisle in your battle colors now would you?”

 

“Well, I don’t know. Battle colors always do look fetching on you, John.”

 

Archie smirks at Sherlock through the mirror, clearly making the same mistake that every other sodding human on the planet makes whenever the two of them appear in a room together. John sighs and ignores the urge to correct the man and instead settles for folding his arms across his exposed and slightly reddened chest.

 

“Bet he looks right fit in a uniform?”

 

Sherlock grins at Archie, his smile entirely too indulgent to not be disturbing and John rolls his eyes heavenward. “I’m right here.”

 

“Ah, don’t worry Cap’n. It’s my job to assess the human body. Want to make sure you look smashing for the big day.” He claps him on his shoulder and gets to work with his measuring tape. Behind them, John watches Sherlock grin down at his phone screen and John colors wondering if he might be filming the entire exchange. Sherlock looks up then, as if called by John’s thoughts, and suddenly John knows for certain that he has been documenting this humiliation and grinds his teeth to keep from groaning. Sherlock Holmes will be the death of him.

 

. . .

 

The Three Holmes men and one very disgruntled groom pile out of an ancient Land Rover once the washy craigs of the shoreline come into view along with the smattering of white-washed stone cottages that will serve as the backdrop for the upcoming wedding. The scenery is undoubtedly picturesque with seagulls looping overhead and the fierce sea rolling in over the granite rocks along the cove. John had never heard of this tiny hamlet before but, at some point, Watsons had settled on this spit of land and therefore Mycroft found it a fitting venue for the wedding. John had never considered the horrifying possibility that there was a romantic bone in Mycroft's body so the fact that John found himself taken with the idea of marrying on his ancestral homeland had him more than a little befuddled and wanting to shake his head free of such fantastical nonsense. When Mr. Holmes had climbed aboard the tiny charter that brought them to Islay, not two hours prior with a pudding made by Mrs. Holmes for John's 'special day', John figured any attempt at staying sober this weekend was for naught and he should just start drinking right there on the plane. The Holmes family had officially driven him round the twist. 

 

“Is all of this really necessary?” John roars a last-ditch effort for freedom over the wind as they collectively take in the scenery.

 

Mr. Holmes pats him on the back before shuffling his way into a public house nearby that John hopes contains whisky and not just bitter. Once they enter the small, dark main room and spies what lies behind the bar, John finds that he needn't have worried. The place serves nothing but whisky and his sinking morale buoys itself just the tiniest bit.

 

. . .

 

“Am I ever actually going to meet his woman?”

 

“Who?” Sherlock asks.

 

John slams his third drink onto the bartop. “My intended, you twat!”

 

“Oh. Yes. No.”

 

“What?”

 

“No.”

 

“No, I’m not going to meet her?”

 

“Is there a need?”

 

“Aren’t I marrying her?”

 

“Well, yes. But it’s a fake wedding, John. Remember?”

 

“I do. I still think I should meet the woman.”

 

Sherlock grimaces into his drink. “No.”

 

“Why?”

 

“She’s entirely too attractive.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes go wide in horror and then look up at John, his mouth a perfect O of shock. He clearly hadn’t meant to say that aloud and John giggles into his elbow despite himself. 

 

“You’re afraid I’ll actually want to marry her, eh?”

 

“She is a looker, son.” Mr. Holmes chimes in, his eyes wistful. Mycroft scowls at the man before threatening to dial mummy. The two of them descend into a stilted conversation that has more to do with will than actual words and John can’t help but ogle at the strange men before Sherlock slides another whisky in front of him.

 

“Keep up.”

 

“I’ve had more than you.”

 

“Yes, but you drink more than me anyway.”

 

“Only because you drive me to the bottle in the first place.”

 

Sherlock grins down his aristocratic nose at him. “I know.”

 

John snorts. “That’s not something you should be proud of.”

 

“What? Getting a rise out of you isn't worthy of praise?”

 

“Everything you do that doesn’t have me kill you is worthy of praise, it doesn’t mean I’m actually going to say so.”

 

This statement is met with a rather endearing frown. “That doesn’t make sense, John.”

 

“I know. I’m a little tipsy.”

 

“Good.”

 

John balks. “Oi, you trying to get me drunk?”

 

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on stag nights?” Sherlock actually looks concerned that he’s gotten that detail wrong and John reaches out one finger to smooth down the crease forming between Sherlock’s eyebrows.

 

“Yes. Drinking. Check.”

 

“Good. And games.”

 

John smiles, his hand dropping back into his lap from where it’d been trailing along Sherlock’s eyebrow a moment before. “Yes. Games. Sure.”

 

A groan sounds behind them. “I don’t do games.”

 

Mr. Holmes waves a hand, dismissing his eldest son. “That’s fine Myc. Go to bed then. I’m up for a game of darts if you two are?”

 

John smiles at Mr. Holmes and gets up from his seat. An ancient dartboard hangs on the wall in the opposite corner of the pub and the men make their way over after Sherlock extracts several lethal looking darts with real feather flights from the barman.

 

“These are actual antiques. Literally. Nineteenth century.” He’s surveying them as if they were a particularly curious mold culture. 

 

“Your grandfather had a pair just like these,” Mr. Holmes says, taking one into his palm.

 

“Yes. Yes. Very interesting. What are we playing?”

 

“Well, it’s a Long End board so--” Mr. Holmes voice trails off as Sherlock throws a perfect bullseye shot right into the middle of the board from across the entire length of the pub. “Uh, well done, son.”

 

Behind them, John just grins.

 

. . .

 

The fire crackles low in its hearth as the two men left in the pub slump dangerously low in their given chairs. The barman had shuffled his tired old feet upstairs about three hours ago, and Mr. Holmes had made his way to his rented cottage along the shore not a half hour before that. Sherlock and John were left, in a surprising turn of trust, with a bottle, the front door key and orders to lock-up when finished.

 

John’s hand is fisted into his cheek as he rests his elbow on the arm of his chair and his socked feet are piled, one on top of the other on the hearth rug in front of him. He’s grinning like a fool at Sherlock’s perplexed expression as he attempts to deduce what’s written on the little piece of paper stuck to his forehead.

 

“Am I human?”

 

John nods. “Sometimes.”

 

“No, you can’t say that . . . it’s --”

 

“Alright fine. Yes. You’re human.”

 

“This is a silly game,” Sherlock huffs.

 

John attempts at a chuckle but it comes out a grunt. “It was your idea.”

 

“Well, it was a stupid one.”

 

John sits up, sways and then starts digging into his trouser pockets. Sherlock looks alarmed.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“No, shhh. Don’t speak. Wait. Do speak. Say that again. Where’s my--”

 

“Say what?”

 

“Dammit, where is--aha!” John pulls out his phone from his pocket, immediately losing grip of the thing as it flies directly into Sherlock’s forehead, braining the man. The little paper that had been stuck there flutters to the ground, forgotten.

 

“Ow.”

 

John leans forward, concern flooding his features. “You okay?”

 

“Well, yes. Save for the bludgeoning.”

 

“Let me--” John falters as he tips off the edge of his chair, his hands landing hard on Sherlock’s thighs as he tries to catch himself. “Shit.” His legs slip from under him and he ends up kneeling in front of the man, practically in supplication at Sherlock’s feet. It’s a startling sight.

 

“It’s . . . I don’t mind.”

 

Sherlock tries for nonchalant but a definitive shift has occurred and not just in their positioning. Beside them, the fire crackles and glows warmly through the amber liquid remaining in their abandoned glasses. John’s arms lay parallel on Sherlock’s thighs, the heat of his skin transferring itself into his very bones and Sherlock finds it’s suddenly hard to breathe in the small space of this tiny public house hidden in a remote corner of Scotland so very far away from the comfort of Baker Street where he always knows all the answers.

 

This was very much John’s territory. His ancestral homeland, his whisky, his stag-night, his hands resting so very close to Sherlock’s hips.

 

Abruptly, John sits back, and Sherlock follows as if on instinct before catching himself and ducking his head towards his knees, the need for more oxygen in his lungs making itself known.

 

“What the--”

 

“Tension, John. I believe,” Sherlock raises his head and stares directly at the man on the floor in front of him, “that it's called tension.”

 

“Well, yeah. Sure. But. Do you normally . . . yah know.” John’s chest heaves as he inelegantly flaps his hand in the direction of Sherlock’s trousers.

 

“Do I normally go in for that sort of thing?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You live with me, John.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So you know the answer to that.”

 

John huffs and crawls back into his chair, his brows furrowing. “I do. Yeah. _Not your area_.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rises as he leans back in his chair attempting to re-establish the boundaries between them that had blurred long ago. He can read John’s disappointment like a book laid open before him and he finds that he doesn’t like what he sees.

 

“What if it was?”

 

John’s head snaps up. “What?”

 

“What if it was . . . my area.”

 

The final words hang in the air like an encroaching fog, crowding around them, encompassing the two men in a heady mix of fire smoke, whisky, and the all-too-sudden tension from earlier. John leans to one side, his right arm braced on his knee, the other pointing to Sherlock with an accusatory finger.

 

“I’m getting married tomorrow.”

 

“It’s a fake wedding, John.”

 

“Yes, but. . . ” John quiets and his eyes dart from one end of the room to the other and then take in the man before him as if he’s never seen him before. “Why are we here, Sherlock? What's the case?”

 

Sherlock crosses his legs. “It’s being handled.”

 

“Yes, but by whom? You're here with me.”

 

Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal of the question and stares into the quickly dwindling flames. “We need more kindling.”

 

“I think we’re perfectly fine.”

 

Sherlock smirks, his eyes shy. “Not what I meant.”

 

“Don’t change the subject. I’ve followed you blindly every step of the way to this blasted place and tomorrow I’m apparently signing my life away to a woman with a god-damned title for heaven’s sake, and you can’t even tell me why we’re here in the first place?”

 

John stands and stalks the two feet it takes to reach Sherlock’s chair, pressing his hands down on Sherlock’s arms, pinning him in place. He doesn’t need to lean in he’s already _right there_ , his body is looming above Sherlock’s, allowing him the advantage of height just this once.

 

“Tell me about the case, Sherlock.” He breathes into the remaining space between them, the spice of the whisky warming the air. Sherlock’s mouth opens with a quick intake of breath as if he’s unconsciously attempting to pull John towards him. Instead, he turns his face and addresses the embers in the hearth.

 

“Her brother-in-law is the target.”

 

“Brother-in-law?”

 

“Yes. Previously married. Widowed. She holds the titles to most of this land and a distillery not far from here. It belonged to her brother-in-law’s family before her late husband had inherited, and in his will it stipulated that all his holdings were to pass to her and not go back into the family’s coffers.”

 

“What does this have to do with me and a fucking wedding?”

 

Sherlock looks back, his eyes taking in a John who is so very close to him and very, very persistent.

 

“Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to see you in a kilt?”

 

John snorts and drops his head, the silver blond of his hair falling onto Sherlock’s shirt front and tickling his collar bones. Sherlock breathes in the scent of the man before him, indulging just this once, just in this moment, because when else will he have the chance?

 

John leans in, resting his weight against Sherlock like a dog waiting for a pat. Sherlock wishes his hands weren’t pinned down so he could stroke the smooth hair tickling his chin. It smells good - salt air and whisky and fire smoke and citrus palm aid all rolled into one wonderful package that encompasses the man standing right in front of him. 

 

Isn’t John always the man in front of him?

 

It’s always John.

 

Sherlock gives in, his nose tucking itself into the crook behind John’s ear, breathing deep, and his eyes fall shut. John’s head moves against his collarbone, his face turning into the curve of Sherlock’s neck and suddenly there’s another shift, and the two men find themselves on a precipice overlooking an unknown future yet to be breached.

 

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his breath hot on the skin on of Sherlock’s neck, his nose nuzzling along the rapid beating of his pulse. Sherlock swallows, his hands flexing on the arms of the chair, wishing for release.

 

A floorboard creaks above them and Sherlock looks up, his attention diverted. John doesn’t let the moment end, his hand is at the back of Sherlock’s neck before he even realizes his right arm is free and there’s a mouth moving against this throat, a tongue pushing against his skin, tasting him, drinking him. Sherlock’s head rolls against the chair back, his eyes falling closed at the sensation.

 

“What are you doing?” The question is genuine because Sherlock has never felt this before. His brain has gone quiet, all focus narrowed down to John’s tongue on his throat.

 

“Whatever I want.”

 

“Yes, but--” The hand that had been playing along the back of his neck reaches into Sherlock’s hair and pulls, effectively quieting the man. John moves away from his throat to capture Sherlock’s mouth with his own, thin lips brushing over full ones, concentrating on the man with a startling amount of perfected skill. Sherlock’s hands lay free yet limp on the chair arms, his entire body given over to whatever John fancies because he can not seem to bring the motor portion of his brain back online; he is a puppet in John’s hands.

 

A knee presses into the spot left between Sherlock’s legs on the seat as John leans into the kiss, his other arm coming to rest on the back of the chair. He’s crowding the man, encompassing all the space and air around him, swallowing him up whole and Sherlock goes willingly. When John pushes that much closer into the vee of Sherlock’s legs, Sherlock whines into the impossible man's mouth, straining against the pressure and the relief it creates. John's hand drops down to Sherlock's lap, adding to the torturous sensation building within him, and Sherlock can feel the satisfied smile John presses against his skin when he jolts as if shocked from the touch. What is John doing to him? He’s falling apart and he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t want this end. He wonders what series of events added up to this very pleasant and pleasurable summation and momentarily reflects on how he can catalog the scenario to ensure a repeat performance. 

 

 _Whisky, hearth fire, Scotland, wedding night . . . Scratch that. No wedding night. No Scotland. Just whisky then. Whisky and fire. Yes. We have both of those at Baker street. Excellent._  

 

The hand in his hair tightens and Sherlock moans despite himself, all previous cataloging efforts falling away from his mind as if his thoughts were nothing more than autumn leaves drifting to the ground below. No one has ever done that to him before in his adult life, in this particular context, and he laments the loss because he would very much like more, please. As if on cue, John pulls again and moves his sinful mouth to Sherlock’s ear, encircling it with his tongue and Sherlock can’t handle it anymore, he’s feeling too much all at once and his hands fly to John’s waist, fingers twitching anxiously against his sides. He’s gulping for air and is unable to find it in the heat of the small room. 

 

“Air,” he tries to say, croaking out the word. “I need air.”

 

He stands up from the chair, stumbling and sending John falling backwards off of him. Sherlock catches him, his eyes widening when he takes in the man in his arms. John’s hair has fallen down over his forehead, tousled and glowing silver in the low light, his eyes are keen and wanting and so utterly open to him, Sherlock holds in a whimper at the sight. He’s never seen John like this, so exposed and willing and it makes his chest hurt with the need. Sherlock drags him to the door of the pub, ripping it open into the roaring wind of the Scottish summer night, tripping out onto the stone path that leads to the shore. John is following blindly behind him, always following him, always there at his side, always.

 

Sherlock falls to his knees into the rocky sand of the shoreline, finally able to breathe in large gulps of air. He takes in the dim light of the morning before him with the streaks of pale gold slicing into the night sky, heralding daybreak. John sinks into the sand next to him, his hands falling forward, heaving. So it wasn’t just him, then. This was mutually overwhelming for them both. That’s a comfort for some reason, and Sherlock finds himself grinning at the man on his knees beside him. Grinning like a damn fool.

 

John looks up at the small chuckles emanating from Sherlock and he wants to glare at him for laughing about this but he can’t find it in himself to do so, instead he flops to his back on the cold sandy shore, well aware of the sodden mess he’ll be when he stands again and laughs, his eyes cast heavenward to take in the stars that remain above them.

 

“That was . . .  insane.”

 

Sherlock snorts. “I know.”

 

“Brilliant. And fucking insane.”

 

Sherlock looks down, all mirth disappearing from his face. “I know.”

 

“I want to kiss you again.”

 

That look is back. The look of complete vulnerability that John never shows anyone - he’d never even allowed Sherlock to witness him this exposed and raw until three minutes ago and Sherlock finds that to be an intoxicating discovery. He leans forward, arms bracing on either side of John’s head on the wet sand, hesitant and surprisingly uncertain of what to do next.

 

John scoffs at the look of caution on Sherlock’s face and wraps a strong hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down towards him. “I said I want to fucking kiss you again.” He closes the distance, arching off the sand to meet Sherlock’s mouth and it’s just as incredible as it had been inside the pub, except now the wind rushes past them, roaring in their ears and the waves crash behind them as if in celebration. Sherlock slots this moment into a special place in his memories to be relived again and again until he happily goes mad with the repetition.

 

After a few moments, Sherlock’s arms give out and he allows John to drag him down into the wet sand, his hands scraping along the rocks as he goes. John pulls and pushes him to where he wants him, maneuvering him as if he were nothing more than a rag doll above him but suddenly there’s friction where Sherlock needs it most and something hard and very insistent pressing against his belly. Sherlock would like nothing more than to take his time with that particular part of John’s anatomy, considering he’s never had the pleasure of being allowed such access to it prior to this moment. The fact that there are a number of layers hindering his mental perusal is not ideal but he can be patient when necessary, and right now there are plenty of other things that seem to require his focus - one very much being the sudden barbaric need to make John moan. 

Sherlock rolls himself experimentally against John in the sand, both feeling and hearing the answering grunt of ‘ _yes, more’_ beneath him and Sherlock allows a grin to cross his lips. John’s reaction is a revelation and all systems fire at once in Sherlock’s mind, demanding that he repeat the action. He does and it’s incredible and some small part of him wonders why they’d never bothered doing this before? This deliciously undignified, ridiculous thing that Sherlock had previously attributed to randy teenagers in nightclubs has now been moved to the top of the list of his most favorite things and he can't bring himself to stop. The deep-rooted feeling of addictive sensation is back, coiling tight around his belly inside him, and he chases after it with eager anticipation. 

 

“Wait.” John pulls his mouth away from Sherlock’s throat where he’d been scraping and biting against the pulse point and Sherlock nearly growls out a curse at the abrupt loss. “Do I actually have to get married tomorrow?” he asks in a surprising moment of clarity that throws a proverbial bucket of cold water over them both. With painful restraint, Sherlock lifts up onto his arms and takes in a deep, steadying breath. 

 

John looks up at Sherlock from his place in the wet sand and finds that his face is an astonishing mixture of lust-filled want and shamed embarrassment. John thinks it's rather endearing before he stills beneath him, finally putting two and two together and a sense of utter betrayal overtakes him.

 

“Oh, my god. Sherlock, do not tell me--”

 

“It really was for a case, John.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

John shoves him back, as he flies up from the sand, bits of gravel and pebbles flinging out behind him. His eyes glow in the low morning light and portray nothing but a fierce gleam of anger. Sherlock considers the sight to be unmistakably predatory but for very much opposite reasons to the ones they’d been discussing earlier with their tongues. Sherlock looks crestfallen and genuinely guilty and John wonders if he’s being given a stage-worthy performance or if this man is actually feeling remorse?

 

Despite all this, he can’t bring himself to be angry - this entire charade is so utterly Sherlockian John’s surprised he didn’t see it coming. He’s categorically pissed off, yes, but angry, no. The evening’s events have lead down a path he’d long thought was forever closed to him, and he won’t allow such a negative emotion to cloud his enjoyment. For all intents and purposes, he and Sherlock are on a weekend holiday in the highlands of Scotland with good whisky and a cottage to themselves. Aside from the scheming and the farce of a reason that got them there, he's perfectly content with admitting that he’s having a rather nice time.

 

No, John Watson is surprisingly and amazingly not angry.

 

He crawls to his feet, brushing off as much wet sand as he can from his trousers before offering a hand out to his friend below him. Sherlock looks confused, his pale fingers reaching out towards John’s with suspicion.

 

“You’re not mad?”

 

“I can’t be arsed to give a shit at the moment.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “Really?”

 

“Get up.”

 

It’s spoken as a command and Sherlock immediately takes his hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his full height. John regards him with an overly keen interest, his eyes narrowing and assessing, and the sight has Sherlock’s eyebrows arching into his hairline.

 

“You’re really not mad?”

 

John grins. “If I truly were, I know of a few ways to exercise my frustrations, Sherlock. Military training and all.”

 

“Which ways, exactly?” Sherlock asks, his voice cracking as John grabs his hand and makes for the white cottages beyond the pub.

 

“You’ll be finding out very soon.”

 

 

- _Fin_ -

* * *

 

 

 

Thanks for reading!   
Come find me on Tumblr if you like - [Zigster-Ao3](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Factual note: The Watson clan lands actually exist down in the lowlands by Edinburgh, nowhere near Islay and the Inner Hebrides on the craggy west coast, BUT it’s more fun to have a roaring sea and twee shoreline cottages as a setting. Rushing water is a theme in Sherlock, so it’s always nice to include it in some form. Please forgive me this blatant disregard for historical accuracy on my part, I just wanted my boys to have a happy holiday in the Highlands. 
> 
> Secondary factual note: Islay is no longer considered part of the Highlands, it’s actually its own region now, but I love alliteration, so once again, I put aside facts for my own whimsies. Sigh. Forgive me.


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